


Per Sempre.

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Florence - Freeform, M/M, Post TWOTL, Post-Fall, healing and living it up, questionable accuracy in legal proceedings, the one where they get married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 03:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18956944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly
Summary: Several months after the fall, Hannibal and Will are on a short trip to reclaim the honeymoon they never got. On a cool, peaceful evening in Florence city centre, they have tickets to the opera - and an appointment to keep.





	Per Sempre.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a tiny bit of something to say congratulations to @thecountessolivia on her wedding. <3 Thanks for being you. 
> 
> ps. do not look too closely at my understanding of civil services in Florence - it's waaaay too complicated to go into. Just indulge me.

 

Will stands in front of the mirror and tweaks at his tie, sliding the knot further up, the motion dreamlike and removed. He’s not worn many ties since he left the academy, almost stubbornly, and the notion had blown through his mind like a fleeting wind that it might feel like a hangman’s noose.

But it doesn’t. The Tuscan air is thick even this late, but cool enough so as not to be stifling. His clothes feel like they’ve never been closer to his body. He supposes that’s what he gets for letting Hannibal’s tailor at him.

As he turns this way and that in the mirror, he sees a shadow in his periphery. _Speak of the devil._

“It’s bad luck to see a bride before she walks down the aisle,” he says, coolly, as Hannibal emerges from the shadows like a fraction splintering away. In the low amber gloom of lamplight, he’s radiant, and serene, flanked by frescos and lush drapery, dark shapes making wings behind him. The dark, polished wood of his cane gleams like his aggressively styled hair.

“Which of us is the bride?”

“Goodness, difficult to tell. Bedelia said it was me.”

A little flicker of a smile at the corners of Hannibal’s maroon eyes, making them glow.

“She’s been wrong before.”

“You’re saying I wouldn’t look better in a dress?” Will turns from the mirror, brushing himself down almost nervously despite having on his best provocative drawl.

“I certainly wouldn’t be averse to seeing you in one.” Hannibal raises his free hand and adjusts the cuff of Will’s shirt over his wrist brace – the last in a long series of surgical supports for an arm held together almost entirely with pins. It only aches sometimes now, when Will’s fingers aren’t buzzing with numbness.

“Will I do, Doctor?”

“You’ll do just fine.”

Will looks over the silver bridge of his glasses – new, with the rest of his clothes, and uncharacteristically modern – and takes in Hannibal’s appearance in turn: crisp tailoring, subtle brocade to his lapels, a flash of oxblood at his throat like a wound. If Will unfocused his eyes it might look like arterial gush.

Privately, Will has always admired Hannibal’s ability to conceal his uncanniness, but now he appears to be embracing it fully, phantasmal and recognisably deadly in black and red. Will feels distinctly average in his suit, the deep blue of low dusk.

“Glad I let you talk me into velvet, you’d have looked like you were with an accountant,” he mutters, smoothing imaginary creases from Hannibal’s broad shoulders with one hand, skimming down over the lean muscles of his back to cup his waist.

“You would still be a truly fascinating accountant,” Hannibal assures, teasingly.

“Mmm, yes, I never would have ended up in the Rolodex, for sure.”

“I would have taken you out eventually.”

Will’s eyes slide to his, slight incredulity somehow buoying his fondness.

“Sure, for some kind of roulade. Why do I love you again?” He whispers.

“Despite your best efforts, you’re burdened with impeccable taste.”

“Hmm, is that it.” Will accepts a soft kiss, and lets Hannibal withdraw. “I’ll get the car and bring it round.”

"Did you get-"

"Yes, I got it. I know you got yours."

Hannibal nods.

“It’s not far, we could walk-?” Faint hope in his voice, a little knife of regret in Will’s ribs.

“It’s too far just yet, but I promise if you’re good I’ll let you overexert yourself later.”

“Altruistic,” Hannibal observes, but he lets Will go with only a hint of lingering heat.

 

He skims his hand along the smooth wooden banister as he takes the steps down to the cool courtyard, the window of sky above lit by stars and a fingernail sliver of moon. Down to the basement parking lot, and he pulls it up outside the block before going to open the great foyer door.

Hannibal emerges from the elevator, gait still smooth and graceful with the cane. He lets Will open the door for him; hold the cane as he lowers himself into the bucket seat.

“We should have got a more sensible car,” Will mutters, eyes drifting over the gleaming bonnet as he moves around the car’s nose. Hannibal watches him through the windscreen like he knows what he’s saying.

“Got everything?” Will checks, easing himself into the driver’s side.

“Everything we need. I dropped the final paperwork off this morning. Someone will meet us in the main entrance.”

“I’ve been struck by a smooth criminal,” Will muses, putting the car into gear and pulling off the curb of the Piazza Massimo D’Azeglio _,_ diverting towards San Marco instead of heading directly toward the city centre. It’s really not far, only a ten-minute drive, but uneven sidewalks, cobbles, and canes do not a match in heaven make – and Hannibal loves the city at night.

He’s smiling, Will knows, as they crawl around the outside of the convent. He wonders if he can see the inside from memory.

“May we go via the Museo? _”_ Hannibal asks, when they’re closing in on Galleria dell’Accademia _,_ deserted and queueless for now, unremarkable in the dark.

“Of course.” Will adjusts the route slightly. They hit slight traffic around Santa Maria, but he winds off down a sideroad, patiently waiting for cyclists and walking groups to clear the road even at this time, eyes scanning the compact store facades, gelaterias, restaurants aglow with laughter and music. The city soaks him with calm despite its bustle, the ancient architecture indifferent to its many inhabitants – and to them. He takes the scenic route even as they get closer, dragging it out a little, and glimpses the peaks and towers of the Duomo through the intersecting streets like a ghost through library bookshelves.

He diverts finally onto Via del Pronconsolo _,_ going slow to avoid the few milling tourists. He notices Hannibal peer interestedly into the Museo Nazionale del Bargello as they glide past, lit unusually late, its imposing insides lit harshly, marbles glowing.

“There’s an opera showcase there tonight, until midnight,” Will murmurs, “I got us tickets.”

No response, but Hannibal’s hand slides warm onto Will’s knee and strokes, squeezes, chaste but intimate. Will smiles and rolls smoothly across the Piazza, keeping time with taxis and scooters through the labyrinthian streets, finally parking on Via Dei Gondi _._

He gets out, taking Hannibal’s cane with him, and opens his door, offering his good arm for support as Hannibal elegantly climbs out of the little hatchback. He smooths himself down, not a hair out of place, and takes Will’s hand in his own.

For a moment, both of them look out over the Piazza della Signoria, the warmly floodlight building fronts and gleaming statues.

When Will glances over, he knows what Hannibal is thinking.

“We couldn’t have bought an apartment on your old stomping grounds, Hannibal.”

“We’re not exactly far away in the one we’re in now.”

“No, but that one’s just temporary, until we find a house.”

Blatant disagreement subsumed by his content, Hannibal squeezes Will’s hand.

“Come on. We’ll be late.”

Carefully, they head into the Palazzo Vecchio, where a member of staff is indeed waiting to take them up to the high vaulted Sala Rossa, away from public exhibit. Hannibal goes slow up the many steps, never letting his discomfort show, and Will keeps a hand on his back regardless.

“Trust you to pick a town hall with a billion steps,” he says softly.

“No compromise in the pursuit of perfection, Will, as you well know.”

Will does know. His heart squeezes in his chest, breath coming short, and not just from the climb.

At the top of the stairs, the attendant shows them through to a sideroom, where an officiate and a witness wait in impeccable black tails – distinctly non-religious. As they explain the order of service to Hannibal in impenetrable Italian, Will watches only him and barely notices the faint uncertainty that seems to come off the three strangers in waves. Homophobia is the most likely culprit, Will wagers; maybe recognition. Or - simple curiosity: Hannibal is clearly wealthy, and eccentric, and yet this ceremony is just for the two of them, despite the cost and the fanfare. The first reason, Will decides quietly, would be better.

Finally, Hannibal turns to Will, and dips his chin to kiss his knuckles, the contact sending sparks up Will’s arm.

“Looks like you’re the bride after all,” he whispers, pulling two roses from an ornamental vase and snapping them off, threading one into each of their buttonholes. “I’ll see you at the end.”

With that, he goes with the two officials through a side door, leaving Will with the attendant. He gives Will a nervous smile, and gestures.

“This way.”

Waiting at the great, carved door, Will checks his trouser pocket, smooths himself down, and thinks for a final time: _now or never._

_Now,_ he thinks, without a hint of hesitation.

The doors open, music rises, and Will feels a flush rise to his cheeks that isn’t purely mortification as he starts down between the small cluster of empty seats. It’s barely been minutes since he’s seen Hannibal, but the symbolism of walking into a room as two and leaving as one isn’t lost on him.

The crimson reception room is almost garish, but in the ambience of the low lights, the Piazza gleaming outside the great windows, it’s every bit as lush and ornate as it should be, great tapestries hung on the main walls, the windows and doors dressed lavishly. A huge, guild mirror hangs to the right of the room, reflecting the unions of hundreds of people, and before the altar two white chairs stand.

Hannibal is before one, his eyes already shining, cane set aside for now. When Will draws near, he takes his hands, and looks at him hard.

“You’ll be mine, after this. Until death do us part. And I’ll be yours. That’s truly what you want?”

“I’m confident I could hide your body if I got really sick of you,” Will whispers, and then he squeezes Hannibal’s hands tight as he can. “The moment I felt that first sting of connection to you, I knew I was never going to willingly be parted from you, Hannibal. We’re a reflection of one another. I’m not your captive. All the places I could be in this world, and I’m here with you. Understand?”

Hannibal takes a breath, and then nods. He turns to the two officials, and both he and Will sit down on their marital thrones. Will glances over at the mirror, at them both flushed and clasping one another's hands and compulsively grinning, and likes what he sees.

 

He thinks he’ll be able to remember the ceremony later, but now, it seems like a blur, from signing and exchanging vows, rings, to leaving with their arms linked; being showered with petals as they left the room. The attendant from before had recorded it, and taken some pictures, he thinks, pre-emptively amused at the look on Hannibal’s face when he sees the blurry zoom of an amateur director.

The thought stirs him back to the recital before them: _Nessan Dorma._ Beside him, Hannibal glows. Both of them are still slightly misty eyed, and every now and then they turn to one another, as if to evince their realness through sight alone.

Their fingers link silently, and Will is caught up in looking at the winking band on his finger – not simple and yellow gold, like the first one, but silver, shot through with veining gold like kintsugi pottery. Its mate sits on Hannibal’s left hand, warm to touch when Will reaches and thumbs it delicately.

Hannibal looks away from the performance, catching Will’s gaze and holding it for a full bar.

“You’re happy,” he observes, eyes warmed with a smile.

“So are you.”

“ _Per sempre_ ,” Hannibal says softly, turning his hand to lattice their fingers, clasping Will’s palm to his own.

_“Per sempre,”_ Will echoes. The crescendo rises behind them.

 


End file.
